A Malazan Book of the Fallen Collection 3

squinted into the vague mists
where it seemed the sound had come from. Then he pulled
himself into the saddle once more. 'I think I was wrong
about there being no guardian,' he said.
    Dull thunder, rising up from the ground beneath them.
Whatever it was was on its way. 'Let's get going,' Paran said.
'Up the shoreline, and fast.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    My faith in the gods is this: they are indifferent to my
suffering.
    Tomlos, Destriant of Fener
?827 Burn's Sleep
     
    H is hands reached into another world. In, then out,
in, then out again. Taking, giving – Heboric could
not tell which, if either. Perhaps nothing more
than the way a tongue worried a loose tooth, the unceasing
probing that triggered stabs of confirmation that things still
weren't quite right. He reached in, and touched something,
the impulsive gesture bitter as benediction, as if he could
not help but repeat, endlessly, a mocking healer's touch.
    To the souls lost in the shattered pieces of jade giants,
Heboric offered only lies. Oh, his touch told them of his
presence, his attention, and they in turn were reminded of
the true lives they once possessed, but what sort of gift
could such knowledge provide? He voiced no promises, yet
they believed in him nonetheless, and this was worse than
torture, for both him and them.
    The dead city was two days behind them now, yet its
ignorant complacency haunted him still, the ghosts and
their insensate, repetitive lives measured out stride by
stride again and again. Too many truths were revealed in
that travail, and when it came to futility Heboric needed
no reminders.
    Unseasonal clouds painted silver the sky, behind which
the sun slid in its rut virtually unseen. Biting insects
swarmed in the cooler air, danced in the muted light on the
old traders' road on which Heboric and his comrades
travelled, rising up in clouds before them.
    The horses snorted to clear their nostrils, rippled the
skin of their necks and flanks. Scillara worked through her
impressive list of curses, fending off the insects with clouds
of rustleaf smoke swirling about her head. Felisin Younger
did much the same, but without the blue tirade. Cutter
rode ahead, and so, Heboric realized, was both responsible
for stirring the hordes and blessed by quickly passing
through them.
    It seemed that Scillara too had noticed the same thing.
    'Why isn't he back here? Then the bloodflies and chigger
fleas would be chasing all of us, instead of this – this
nightmare!'
    Heboric said nothing. Greyfrog was bounding along on
the south side of the road, keeping pace. Unbroken scrubland
stretched out beyond the demon, whilst to the north
ran a ridge of hills – the tail end of the ancient mountain
range that held the long-dead city.
    Icarium's legacy. Like a god loosed and walking the land,
Icarium left bloody footprints. Such creatures should be killed.
Such creatures are an abomination. Whereas Fener – Fener
had simply disappeared. Dragged as the Boar God had been
into this realm, most of its power had been stripped away.
To reveal itself would be to invite annihilation. There were
hunters out there. I need to find a way, a way to send Fener
back. And if Treach didn't like it, too bad. The Boar and
the Wolf could share the Throne of War. In fact, it made
sense. There were always two sides in a war. Us and them,
and neither can rightly be denied their faith. Yes, there was
symmetry in such a notion. 'It's true,' he said, 'I have never
believed in single answers, never believed in this ... this
divisive clash of singularity. Power may have ten thousand
faces, but the look in the eyes of every one of them is the
same.' He glanced over to see Scillara and Felisin staring at
him. 'There's no difference,' he said, 'between speaking
aloud or in one's own head – either way, no-one listens.'
    'Hard to listen,' Scillara said, 'when what you say makes
no sense.'
    'Sense takes effort.'
    'Oh, I'll tell you what makes sense, old man. Children
are a woman's curse. They start with weighing you down
from the inside, then they weigh you down from the outside.
For how long? No, not days, not months, not even
years. Decades. Babies, better they were born with tails and
four legs and eager to run away and crawl into some hole in
the ground. Better they could fend for themselves the
moment they scuttle free. Now, that would make sense.'
    'If that was the way it was,' Felisin said, 'then there'd be
no need for families, for villages, for towns and cities. We'd
all be living in